


Angelica's Fears

by hamildooodles



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda, Historical RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-08
Updated: 2020-10-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:34:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26901475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hamildooodles/pseuds/hamildooodles
Summary: A one-shot where Angelica finds Laurens and Hamilton's letters.
Relationships: Alexander Hamilton/Elizabeth "Eliza" Schuyler, Alexander Hamilton/John Laurens
Kudos: 50





	Angelica's Fears

**Author's Note:**

> Credit for non-historical letters goes to "Duty & Inclination" by Rebecca Dupont!

“Yeah, if you could just stick those two right in the office on the left, please. Ah, thank you sis!”

Hamilton has taken the liberty, which I allow him to of course, to share Eliza’s endearment for me, by calling me by such a nickname. It gives me pleasure, really, knowing he never had a stable family to embrace and relish in. I take the light boxes from the foyer and into the office as he says, still hearing decorated ‘thank you’s flowing down the stairs. 

The new house is clean and small, beautiful enough for a young couple without the spatial burdens of children yet. My dear sister and her new husband are thrilled for their new home; giggles and kisses fill in spaces where the audible frustrations of moving should be. My sister glows, not in need of powder for her hair or for her cheeks. She is so happy, and I live vicariously through it. 

My husband helps Hamilton lift the heavier pieces of furniture in, mostly pieces our father has shared with us, some newer that were bought just for the Hamiltons. Eliza begins to unpack in the bedroom upstairs, and I suppose I shouldn’t be left doing nothing while the men do all the lifting. 

I catch Hamilton’s arm when he bounces back down the stairs. “Shall I start unpacking for you?”

He smiles, “I think Eliza and Peggy are sufficient for now, upstairs, that is. Perhaps my office supplies wouldn’t be too great a burden? Just to make stacks of a few papers, um everything should be organized already, but if not, I know you were just there, and I’m sure I—”

“Not another word, I can handle it,” I say, laughing at him scramble for words out of guilt. “I told you and your sister that I would help, so please would you quit the guilt, Hamilton?” 

He belly laughs as his fair complexion quickly turns red. 

“Honestly!” I shout, already on the way back to the office. 

I open a few trunks already placed on the floor. Light with only parchment to fill them, it’s obvious that he keeps good record of his monetary transactions, war correspondence, and personal letters to my dear sister. The oak desk has already been cleared, and it’s quite large enough to sustain several sorted piles. I’m a bit jealous of the fine desk, I’ll admit. I stick a few inkpots and wells into its drawers, saving the quills for a separate storage cup that I remember Eliza wrapping up in newspaper back at home. 

I shelve a few books, most of them boring subjects for any other woman. I pride myself on my worldliness, even if it be bold and improper for such a woman with my fortune. I chuckle to myself upon seeing novels in the sea of informational texts, like The Iliad and Gulliver’s Travels. The man is a voracious reader. 

I open folders next, finally acknowledging the most tedious task in the room. Each is labeled in Hamilton’s fine cursive, and I pick up the ones with similar names like “Taxes,” “Old Paybook,” “IOUs to P. Schuyler/Washington/Tilghman,” and “Treasury.” Breaking each folder’s seal with the letter opener, I place each mini stack on the floor, checking quickly to make sure the letters match the folders’ descriptions of them. Once checked, I then pick up all the piles and shuffle each group of papers, landscape to portrait to landscape again, in case he still wants each folder separate. I place the “I owe you” pile on the bottom on purpose; Eliza and I both know he worries too much about not having his own funds. I take a spare piece of paper, writing ‘Monetary Transactions, etc.’ in a large font, and place it on top.

The mega pile that I dub ‘War Correspondence’ comes next. These papers are placed in much larger folders, with less distinct titles. The folders mostly contain names, and I recognize the names of major generals from his fellow aides. ‘Washington,’ quite predictably, has his own massive folder. ‘Greene’s folder also contains a bit of parchment. ‘Lafayette’ and ‘Meade’ are sorted in between the stacks, as I skim the letters on top, torn between sorting them in ‘War Correspondence’ or ‘Personal Letters.’ I notice that personal letters appear to overlap with war correspondence quite a bit, so I intentionally place the two heaps next to each other. I laugh out loud when I spy the blobs of ink on the last folder in the trunk, evidence of a quill pressed too hard against the paper, perhaps out of anger or frustration. The name? Gates.

I find all of his letters from Eliza, labeled in a folder that appears, ‘My Betsey,’ with a heart. I roll my eyes in jest, and start a separate pile just for her letters — there’s plenty enough to sustain a stack. I skim-read a few of them out of curiosity, at least the ones from later in their courtship that I haven’t seen. I laugh at the memory, my sweet, nervous, excited, lovestruck sister gushing and sharing all of his letters with Peggy and me. ‘Love Letters’ shall be the pile.

I unload the second and third trunks, gaining speed and grace as I check and sort them into piles much quicker than I began nearly thirty minutes ago. I’ve almost reached the end and I’m exhausted, and frankly a little annoyed, when I see the folder vaguely marked, “work things” in scrappy cursive. “Ugh, Hamiltonnnn, you really going to make me work to sort these?” I groan under my breath as I break the seal on the folder with the letter opener for what feels like the thousandth time this afternoon. There’s no use sorting them on the floor again, as I only see one folder labeled with this title. I throw the used wax at the trash can, missing the basket, and slide out the papers on the small space left on the desk to determine their correct final resting pile. 

Every letter in this folder is dedicated to a lieutenant colonel. One lieutenant colonel. A Mr. ‘John Laurens’ graces every paper. Or should I say, a ‘Dear Laurens,’ a ‘Dear J,’ ‘My Jack,’ or a ‘dear boy.’ A correspondence is easy to lay out in nearly perfect order: Hamilton keeps copies of his own letters, in addition to replies from Lt. Col. Laurens. A strange pit forms in my stomach when I read the letters thoroughly. 

I suppose they are arranged in the folder from date ascending to descending. Two copied letters from Hamilton lie on the top of the pile, both dated February 4th of this year, just a few weeks ago now. Affectionate but not strange, I begin to think nothing of it. Only odd thing be that the vague title is unrelated to the man’s surname. 

I finger through the rest, perhaps a bit more curious than I should be. I skim-read through letters upon first inspection appearing innocent enough. It is not until I reach the bottom of the pile when I begin to grow weary. Hamilton writes of love, ‘by action rather than words.’ My hands shake as my eyes fly down the page, still careful over every hidden meaning. I feel my breath catch in my chest and I have to rub my eyes for a minute. It certainly says indeed what I’m reading, “don’t forget, that I never spared you of pictures.”

Jesus, no. This cannot be. 

Oh I’m such a folly. It’s just Hamilton’s writing. He’s quite poetic, perhaps unintentionally charming. I feel guilt and shame doubting such a fine man, who clearly is a good-natured husband to my precious sister. What was I thinking?

I shuffle a few more letters, promising to only skim them, making sure this isn’t a folder of miscellaneous documents like its title would suggest. “I know the time it takes to pen a letter and I would prefer pages upon pages but if you may only give me lines then give them and write me simple words, quick as they may be. Write ‘my dear,’ write ‘my darling,’ write ‘my heart,’ write ‘my love,’ write my name and I shall hear you say ‘Alexander’—”

No. I’m just a fool. A snoopish fool who shall have no right to be reading his personal letters without permission. I close my eyes and press the papers into the desk. This is not my job anyway. 

I angrily tap the pile onto the desk to straighten it. Letters stick out the sides of the stack as I attempt to straighten and flatten it evenly. Some remain in their original envelopes, perhaps to deter wandering eyes such as my own. I pay close attention to the orientation and folds of the paper, with all intention to place them back seemingly untouched. There’s still old drafts, unsent, unseen by anyone’s eyes until now. One of Laurens’ letters stands out. Not in an envelope, just untouched. I suppose I should not make disgusting assumptions until I read both parties’ accounts. 

It dates from September 4 of ‘79. Nothing unusual stands out. It is but a normal letter between friends. I am relieved. 

No more need to invade privacy. Matters are settled. 

I turn to leave, pile settled and straight. 

But… 

I shut the door instead.

“My Laurens…I would act as Achilles from the loss of Patroclus…I would prefer your face and your kiss to words on paper…bring yourself where he may hold you close and touch your skin and see you bare…”

I frantically open the reply, hardly remembering which direction the letter was placed, hidden away in another layer in two envelopes.

“My Hamilton…my hands ache to hold you with fear I should forget the feel of your body or kisses…Savannah was as much a torture as my parting from yourself…if I may be bold to say, I would endeavor to garner your acceptance once more through my hands and lips upon you until you beg me stop.”

I fail to revive my breath, motionless, save for the letters heaved at the desk. Anger and sadness and confusion find way to my body, threatening to escape through a verbal attack on the man I thought I knew. My poor sister.

… 

“Sis, you don’t have to close the door, you were no cause of disturbance,” Hamilton says, rapping on the door frame with freckled knuckles and a smile. 

I do not speak.

His eyes slide from the bookshelves to the desk. “Wow! It looks great, thank you so much, Angelica. I am so beyond grateful, you cannot understand my appreciation,” he exclaims, grabbing both my hands, practically shaking them in his gratitude. I pull them out of his grip immediately. 

“I’m sorry, did I overstep? Is something the matter?”

I stare at him, defeated and blank. 

“Ang, are you well?” He steps forward to feel my forehead. I writhe from his touch. 

“I sorted your letters as you requested, Hamilton. There are a few piles that most fit well into.” I watch his eyes slide from ‘Monetary Transactions, etc.’ down to ‘Love Letters.’

“Thank you,” he says carefully, thumbing a corner of Eliza’s last letter to him before their marriage. 

“There were a few,” I start, grabbing his attention, “which seemed to fit in several piles.” I walk two steps closer to the desk chair. “And a few,” I pick up the stack left separate, “which seemed to be, umm, miscellaneous, belonging to no pile at all.” 

“Oh I would imagine,” he half laughs, “I’ve collected much paper through the years.”

“I would have taken the liberty to add these to ‘Love Letters,’ but I thought you should review them.” I place the stack in his hands and move past him, out the door. 

He pauses for a beat before whipping around. “Angelica,” he gasps, gripping my forearm. 

“Don’t touch me,” I bark, still whispered enough not to cause a scene. 

When I look up at him, his fair complexion is even paler than I thought possible. He looks as though he might vomit upon the stack or myself. “Angelica…,” he says through shaking breath.

“Does she know?” I close my eyes. I cannot bear to see him. 

“S…She…”

“Alexander, does she know!?”

“No…please Ang, it’s not what it looks like—”

“—You mean to deny such obvious proof? You think me stupid?”

“Angelica!” he squeals, tears brimming in his eyes. 

Oh God, what have I done?

He shuts the office door behind us, turning his back to me and rubbing his eyes. They’re red and wet when he faces me again, inhaling slow and deep. “He was, we were, it really wasn—”

I wave my hand, cutting him off. “I don’t want your explanation, I do not want to hear of such excuses, please.” He loses all control of his slow and deep breathing, panting fast and shallow now, hands tugging through his hair and at his cravat. I’ve never seen the man act so unpolished and wrecked. If I had any doubts, they have vanished upon seeing him in such a state. 

His voice, hushed into a whisper begins, “I shall tell her if you wish, I will forego my pride and—”

“—You will not tell her. Understand?” 

He bites his trembling lip as a single tear rolls down his cheek. 

I take in a deep breath. “And neither will I.”


End file.
